“You are right,” said Don Tiburcio, not minded to dispute.
They passed the barracks. Doña Consolacion was at the window, as usual dressed in flannel, and puffing her puro. As the house was low, the two women faced each other. The muse examined Doña Victorina from head to foot, protruded her lip, ejected tobacco juice, and turned away her head. This affectation of contempt brought the patience of the doctora to an end. Leaving her husband without support, she went, trembling with rage, powerless to utter a word, and placed herself in front of the alféreza’s window. Doña Consolacion turned her head slowly back, regarded her antagonist with the utmost calm, and spat again with the same cool contempt.
“What’s the matter with you, doña?” she asked.
“Could you tell me, señora, why you stare at me in this fashion? Are you jealous?” Doña Victorina was at last able to say.
“I jealous? And of you?” replied the alféreza calmly. “Yes, I’m jealous of your frizzes.”
“Come away there!” broke in the doctor; “d—d—don’t pay at—t—t—tention to these f—f—follies!”
“Let me alone! I have to give a lesson to this brazenface!” replied the doctora, joggling her husband, who just missed sprawling in the dust.
“Consider to whom you are speaking!” she said haughtily, turning back to Doña Consolacion. “Don’t think I am a provincial or a woman of your class. With us, at Manila, the alférezas are not received; they wait at the door.”
“Ho! ho! most worshipful señora, the alférezas wait at the door! But you receive such paralytics as this gentleman! Ha! ha! ha!”
Had she been less powdered Doña Victorina might have been seen to blush. She started to rush on her enemy, but the sentinel stood in the way. The street was filling with a curious crowd.